


Let Me Show You What I See

by Owenjones



Series: Good Omens One Shots [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Canon Compliant, Crowley is an artist, Draw Me Like One of Your French Girls, Historical, M/M, Mona Lisa, One Shot, Renaissance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-12 02:34:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19938736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owenjones/pseuds/Owenjones
Summary: In 1601, a demon tempted an angel out to dinner after his trip to Edinburgh, to thank him for a bad job done well. Dinner slowly transitioned to dessert. Then, when the restaurant closed, they went to Crowley’s place for drinks. Just to discuss the business details of the Arrangement, of course.Aziraphale asks about Crowley's Mona Lisa and discovers something new about the demon. Set soon after the Shakespeare scene in episode 3.





	Let Me Show You What I See

In 1601, a demon tempted an angel out to dinner after his trip to Edinburgh, to thank him for a bad job done well. Dinner slowly transitioned to dessert. Then, when the restaurant closed, they went to Crowley’s place for drinks. Just to discuss the business details of the Arrangement, of course. 

Swirling the glass of wine in his hand, Aziraphale studied the drawing hanging on the wall closely, his brow furrowing, “The subject looks a bit familiar. Who is it meant to be? Perhaps I knew her.”

The demon looked up from his own drink, “Oh? You met her, it’s a self-portrait.”

Aziraphale looked back at him, confused, “But you said -- Leonardo…?”

Crowley rolled his eyes, “You know as well as I do that the lines between these things are blurred.”

“Yes, of course, of course… Just that humans tend to make such a fuss over those distinctions these days.” 

“They do. Wish it was more like the old days.” Crowley shot Aziraphale a mischievous look, “Remember your year as a nun?” 

Aziraphale held in a laugh, “Certainly was a change of pace, but I am never doing that again. I was very grateful you tempted me to leave. I’d probably still be there otherwise.” 

“You weren’t cut out for sisterhood, Angel. If I remember correctly, you broke all your vows the second I showed up. Hardly had to tempt ya…” He blinked, the scene of the rescue playing out in his mind. His drunken state made his eyelids extremely heavy. He relented and let them fall closed. “But you looked good in a wimple, gotta say.”

“Erm, why is it unfinished?”

“Huh? Oh, Leo’s sketch? Right, it was a draft. The finished one is fine I guess, but you’re not missing much. I like this one much better, honestly. Looks more like him.”

The angel couldn’t take his eyes off the lines of the sketch. The similarity was starting to come together. Now that he knew the subject, the fact that it was a depiction of Leonardo was undeniable. He was brought back to his time in Florence, where he’d briefly met the artist, though they hadn’t gotten along. He remembered how suspicious the man was, how he immediately took a disliking to Aziraphale, “I know how protective he was over his work, all of his secret codes and suchlike. What did you have to do to get him to hand this over, huh?”

Crowley took a long drink. He began to sink into his chair.

Aziraphale didn’t notice and drunkenly charged ahead, “Bribery? Or was it a simple temptation? What? Gosh, did you steal it? Come on, no need to be sheepish, my dear. Tell me.”

“It was a gift.” He spat out after a moment, “No tempting. His own free will.” 

“A gift?” Now, he hadn’t expected that. 

“Free will! You know I’m all about free will, people get the choice to do what they want--” 

“He _gave_ this to you?”

“Er-- yes.” 

“You didn’t… ?”

“God’s truth.”

“Really? But he was so … Why did he… ?” The angel roughly gestured to the portrait with his cup, and by some miracle, he managed not to spill a drop of his wine.

“He took a liking to me, okay?” Crowley had bonelessly sunk all the way down in his chair and turned his head away, 

“Took a liking-- what, you mean you got to know him?”

“We were close-- we got close, it’s no big deal. The sketch was, it was just a gift. He knew I liked it, is all.”

“My dear… you never told me! You never told me any of this!”

“What is there to tell?”

He took a breath, and asked quietly, “What sort of relationship did you have with him?”

The angel was far too drunk to really realize what he was asking. And the demon was far too drunk to lie, “We were friends. He mentored me. Just for a bit.”

“Mentored you in what? Inventions, I suppose?” But Crowley shook his head, and Aziraphale made a little gasp, “I didn’t know you did art, you never told me that!”

“‘Course I do. Art has come a long way since the 14th century. Used to be all baby Jesus and the virgin Mary and all that. Now it’s, well, it's sinful isn’t it?” He took a sip, “Indulgent or whatever. Thou shalt not… graven images?” He wasn’t sure quite what he was saying, but Aziraphale nodded along as if he were making a good point. 

“What sorts of things do you depict?”

“Oh, I drew people mostly. Got quite good at it, too.”

“It’s quite fascinating. I don’t know how things like that are possible.” He traced a finger over the lines of the self-portrait, “How you can so fully capture someone in two dimen-- dimens-- on flat paper.” 

“It’s not as difficult as you’d imagine. All humans are basically the same model. And I’ve seen the original ones so, you know, that helps. Once you got the basic form down, it’s just a matter of changing some details to suit the subject.”

“Huh, I never thought of it like that. Could you show me?”

Crowley stiffened, “Not at all, Angel. You don’t know what you’re saying, you’re far too drunk and, frankly, so am I.” 

Aziraphale finished the last of the wine in his glass, “Could sober up if we want to.” 

“Well, I don’t want to.” 

“I want to see.” He pouted and stared at Crowley with eyes that just begged him. And he had no way to say no to that. 

“Fine. Sit down over there.” Crowley stood up and left the room to fetch his supplies. He came back to find Aziraphale sitting with perfect posture, smiling expectantly on the couch. His eyes flickered between his hands in his lap, and his friend walking in the room. Crowley placed himself on the chair opposite, opened up his sketchbook to a blank page, and pulled a pencil out from behind his ear, “Just lean back and relax, Angel.”

He tensed up, “Wait, what are you doing?”

Crowley paused just as he made the first mark on the page, “I’m drawing you. That’s what you wanted… right?” 

“No-- No not at all--” He bumbled, “No, no, no. I was asking if I could _see_ your drawings. Not--”

Crowley smirked, “All my drawings are back in Florence somewhere. If you really want to see, well…”

“Can’t you draw someone else?”

“No one else here. Need a model.” 

“But not-- not me, surely. You don’t want to draw _this_.”

“Why not? Your corporeal form, well, it looks… it’s nice.”

“You don’t mean that. You’re drunk.”

“I do, I really do. I really want to draw you, now. Lie back.”

“You must have drawn loads of beautiful people.”

“Oh shut up.” He said, practically a whisper, “Let me show you what I see.” 

Aziraphale relented, and let his hands unclench. He took a drink straight from the bottle, then settled back into the pillows. It was really happening, and he was sort of excited. His face began to burn under the scrutiny of the golden eyes, and he shifted further back. Crowley, on the other hand, had gone deadly silent and perfectly still. Soon, a soft scratching began. His gaze softly rolled over Aziraphale’s body and translated the rough shapes onto the page. The pencil just barely grazed the paper at first, his hand flew softly and swiftly in wide swoops. It was so gentle, far more gentle than he had ever seen Crowley before.

He wasn’t even aware of how long he was there, it could have been years or it could have been seconds that he sat there on the couch. It sort of felt like when Crowley stops time. Maybe he had, so nothing could interrupt him. 

As time passed, the marks slowly grew darker and deeper. His arm wasn’t sweeping around like before. It became rather more decisive though still quite unfocused. He never settled on one area of the drawing, always moving around and fixing different bits. But it did not seem unplanned in the least. The image was already completed somewhere in the air or in his mind, and Crowley was just projecting it onto the page. 

The shapes were finally coming together into something recognizable, almost all at once. He still hardly looked at the page, however, which shocked Aziraphale. His slitted pupils just bored themselves into his model. He was looking at all of him at the same time, somehow. This was the essential bit of the drawing, it wasn’t just the sketch, it was where the details came through. And the artist’s face grew more intense all the while. He felt like Crowley was trying to get permission to enter him. Aziraphale allowed it, relaxed into it. 

He tingled under the feeling of such exploration; Crowley was seeing more of Aziraphale than he ever had before in the years of their friendship. His gaze found its way right to his core, his soul. He was seeing more of him than any human had, or any angel for that matter. In fact, the last time he felt so thoroughly seen was when he stood in the face of God. Just pure acceptance, unconditional. Aziraphale could barely draw a breath under the weight of his gaze. He tried to see back into him, but Crowley’s eyes revealed almost nothing. His mind was blank, he was just a vessel, conveying the image in front of him. Aziraphale had never known him to be so silent, nor so frantic. Especially not at the same time. Did Leonardo ever see him like this? Did he enjoy it as much as Aziraphale did?

A sharp breath broke the spell. Crowley slowed all of a sudden. It was over, he just had to add the final touches. His wrist loosened, marks got light once again. He was no longer looking at Aziraphale, instead, his face was focused intensely on the drawing. It was good, he supposed, one more second of eye contact would have been too much for the both of them. And eventually, Crowley took a final shaky breath and raised the pencil. 

The pair were silent, they gathered themselves for a minute. Crowley snapped his fingers and his glasses materialized on his face. They had to rebuild the walls between them before they could speak, lest they reveal too much. 

“Done.” He croaked.

“Can I see?”

“... Yeah.”

He took one last drink and handed the book over. Aziraphale’s breath flew out of him. His free hand shot up to his cover his mouth.

It was so… him. Not just his corporeal form, it was so much more than that. It was everything. All of him. Dull, ordinary graphite marks had come together into something unbelievably ethereal. It shined with his angelic spirit. There were no wings nor halo in the drawing, but he could sense their presence. They were there somehow. But, more than that, it contained his unique love for Crowley. Every fond feeling and anxiety about his arrangement partner was captured in his facial expression, in his posture. The fear of falling, the fear of Crowley’s destruction, but a beautiful desire almost overwhelming it all. It was remarkable. It was terrifying.

“It’s -- Oh heavens.” Aziraphale felt more inarticulate than ever.

“I’m a bit out of practice, I know--”

“Shut up, Crowley.” He slammed the sketchbook closed, he couldn’t bear to look at it anymore, “It’s-- I’m speechless. Oh dear.”

The intimacy of the moment had passed. The angel quickly sobered himself up, fearful of what he would do if a drop of alcohol remained in his body. He thanked Crowley for the drinks, and excused himself, leaving the drawing behind. 

Four hundred years had passed, and the day was never mentioned again. But today, if you went to a bookshop in Soho and dug around in the clutter, you would find the drawing carefully preserved in a plastic sheet. Miraculously, the old drawing shines today just as much as it did the day it was made.


End file.
